


I Don't Want To

by Anigmagrl



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, I'm Sorry, If you love Karen Page, Just Friends, No Fluff, Ouch, POV Karen Page, Pure self- indulgent angst, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, like really hurt, this is gonna hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29893734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anigmagrl/pseuds/Anigmagrl
Summary: Months after the hospital,  Karen gets a phone call and a plea for help.  A plea she is constitutionally incapable of turning down.   In the course of this mission, she makes some painful discoveries that forces her to face her reality.
Relationships: Frank Castle & Karen Page, Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	I Don't Want To

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mess. First person, last person, tenses, etc. I've been thinking about this forever. Finally wrote it. And rewrote it. And now... I can't look at it anymore. So here.

“Fuck.” A harsh whisper.

Curiosity killed the cat, right? _Well, Page, you truly fucked yourself this time_. Karen took a long shuddering breath, trying to blank her mind, to calm herself. Anything but confront what she had just seen in the file now slammed shut, both of her trembling hands pressed on top. As if the file was fighting to re-open, to spew its secrets at her. Each jagged page eager to cut and scrape open her vulnerable flesh. Tears welled in her eyes despite her willing them not to. A giant lump lodged in her throat, making it impossible to swallow. To breathe. Her lips trembled with the effort to control her rioting emotions.

Twin droplets escaped her eyes despite being clenched shut. She pressed the long fingers of one hand to her lips, firming them into a thin, straight line. She let out a long, controlled and only slightly jagged breath. The same hand rose from her lips to swipe impatiently at the tears still silently escaping as she fought to pull herself together.

Not here. Not in some random interview room allotted to her by Madani in Homeland. God knew what Madani already thought of her, there was no need to confirm or exacerbate it. She took the file gingerly and put it down beside her chair on a box brought up from Archives just yesterday, eyes avoiding the voluminous bag beside the box. Pulling a random folder on the table in front of her, she opened it and directed her unseeing eyes at it. The internal struggle for control waged furiously.

 _Get your shit together, Page_. Just enough to get out of the building and into a cab. A few words to Madani, then she can duck down the stairs and arrange for an Uber. _No._ Uber _now_. That way, it can be waiting for her when she left the building. No standing still outside waiting god knows how long for the ride, still in view of cameras, security and God knows who else.

Karen pulled her phone to her face in bleary search for her Uber app. Fingers trembling, she hit home. _Lucky_. A harsh laugh escaped her throat before she could regain control, long delicate fingers once again pressing hard on her lips to hold in the bubbling hysteria. Yeah, she was real lucky alright. There was a driver a few blocks away. Eight minutes. _Just enough time…_

Fumbling, Karen clumsily knocked another folder off the table. As she bent over to retrieve the contents, she surreptitiously took the previous offending folder on the box and slipped it into her gaping bag. Good thing she liked big bags- _the better to carry your crap around in, my dear…_ Karen’s head gave a quick but emphatic shake, as if to clear it of the rising delirium threatening to escape. She wiped her face and stood up, her bag hooked securely on her shoulders. Both hands locked rigidly around the shoulder strap, and her tenuous composure, holding on for dear life. With a deep breath, she left to room. A quick excuse to Madani with just her head barely in the door and she was out. She took the stairs, couldn’t even begin to fathom the thought of standing still in an empty elevator let alone sharing one. She needed to move. To do.

 _Just a little farther Page._ _You can make it that far._ Her Uber drove up as she exited the building. _Maybe I am lucky… With superficial shit that means nothing in the long run anyway,_ she thought as she got in and closed the door. After a mumbled confirmation of her destination with the driver, not once looking up or forward, she pulled her bag onto her lap.

Suddenly, her resolve crumbled and the façade broke. Tears streamed continuously down her face onto her bag. She managed to keep from sobbing out loud, despite her entire body shaking, in a silent but furious internal struggle for command. Karen Page didn’t quit. She didn’t know how. Despite the unceasing tears, not a single sound left her silent, heaving body.

Why did she say yes? After the hospital, after 4 months of silence? Why did she even pick up the phone? She didn’t even know anyone in Florida. Curiosity killed the cat and Karen Page picked up the phone. Karen said yes to a girl she had fleetingly met for a few minutes. A guilt-ridden girl, looking to atone and make amends for someone they both cared deeply for. Looking to fix something she had no control of. Looking for help and knowing. From just those few minutes and maybe two words spoken to each other? Yes, she _knew_. She knew Karen would say yes.

She was fucking right. Amy asked Karen to try and get Frank his life back from Homeland. She listened to the girl’s reasons why it wasn’t fair. He did it for her. He was doing fine, traveling the country, meeting- Karen blocked that thought. Amy would be dead if he hadn’t stepped in. Like the rest of her friends- slaughtered, in a red, garish display of depraved gratification. If he hadn’t saved her, throwing away Pete Castiglione and his burgeoning life in the process, Amy would be dead. That was fact. That had to count for something, right? There had to be something Madani could do, right? She could at least ask. Well, Karen could. Not Amy. Something about credit cards and Lombardi’s? Amy refused to elaborate, glossing easily on in her impassioned diatribe.

So… She said yes. Knowing there was no chance in a million, Karen Page said yes. Knowing how ridiculous a quest this was, Karen said yes. But curiosity killed the cat and she hadn’t seen or heard from Frank in over four long, excruciating months. Not since the hospital. Not since I don’t want to. Curiosity killed the cat and Karen wanted, no, she desperately needed any connection, any tether, even if it was just to the past. Another a month of badgering Madani, daily, got her access to files detailing Pete’s journey since he left Frank Castle, New York and the carousel behind. Since he left her behind. Who knew Homeland kept track of their freebies?

The car stopped. Karen flinched, looked out the window, in sudden realization she was in front of her building. With another mumbled thank you to the driver, whose eyes she hadn’t met once, she left the car, head down, face curtained, fumbling for her keys. God knows what the driver thought of the silent, shaking, crazy woman behind him, a veil of blonde concealing her face the entire way. She somehow made it up the stairs and into her door, closed the deadbolt and hooked the chain. She stared at it blankly. Tears still streaming. She didn’t know what to do. The goal was to make it back so she could fall apart alone. She made it back. Now…

Suddenly, as if making up for the lost time spent staring at the door, she sprang into a flurry of actions. Her pumps were left where she was standing, her bag fell on the couch while her pencil skirt was discarded halfway to the kitchen. Her hands found a bottle of bourbon from the cupboard, screw the cups, on her loop back to her couch. She sat sideways, knees folded against her chest, facing her bag resting upright on the next cushion over, bottle of Maker’s clutched to her chest. Her eyes stay glued to the bag as her hands clumsily peeled and uncorked. She brought the mouth of the bottle to her lips and tipped. Then her eyes clenched shut as fire burned. It was a good burn. A strong burn that distracted her from the consuming pain. The ice. A fire that softened the chill that had taken hold of her body back in that little office at Homeland. The world stilled to a trance- her on the couch, eyes on the bag, hands rising and falling, mechanically feeding the burn, stoking the flame. Desperately trying to check the chill that had crept insidiously into every corner of her being, turning her into ice.

It wasn’t until the burn roared, that Karen Page melted back to life. She wasn’t warm, but numb was good enough to not feel the cold. She wedged the bottle securely between her body and the back of the couch. She needed it close for what she was about to delve into. Hands trembling, she took the offending file out and made room for it on her lap. Taking another pull of Maker’s, she swiped the wet from her face. This was the fifth file she had gone through. Or she was about to go through. She had just begun. Seems Homeland kept track when it gave out free passes. Huh.

Who the hell came up with _Pete_? Seriously? And _Castiglione_? Italian derived from Latin roots meaning castle? Really? Someone was being seriously overpaid for this lazy shit.

It seems the first few months of Pete Castiglione’s life was spent traveling cross country, ostensibly for sightseeing. Karen snorted. Sightseeing bars with live bands maybe. Driving away from the demons he left behind. _That’s me. Karen Page. A demon left behind._

_I don’t want to._

Nothing really exciting initially. Just state to state, small town to smaller town. Then Michigan. Then Lola’s. Karen looked at the file on her lap. Beth Quinn. _I don’t want to_. She picked up the interview filed by Agent Chase when he interviewed Ms. Quinn a few days after she was released from the hospital for a gunshot wound. Pete had appeared in Lola’s on a rowdy night featuring a live local band. They were good. Good meant rowdy. Pete liked the music. Pete liked Quinn, it seemed. Quinn certainly liked Pete. They talked. Pete was also a gentleman. Old school. Spoke up when some asshole was giving her a hard time. They talked some more. They laughed. Flirted? Seems Ms. Quinn was bartender at Lola’s by night, music teacher with young son named Rex by day. A sharp pain pierced through Karen’s chest, stealing her breath, leaving her gasping. A _family_. One hand pressed desperately at her chest, a futile attempt to hold the pain at bay. Her body bowed into itself in self-defense. The other hand kept track in the file. _I don’t want to._

Karen and Frank had never really laughed together. Never really talked about anything that didn’t involve his family or his missions. In fact, she couldn’t remember a moment with him that wasn’t fraught with threats of danger lurking in every shadow. Frank Castle lived in the shadows. So did Karen Page. The difference was she had a double that lived in the light out of necessity. Karen didn’t have the luxury of a deep dive into the wallowing darkness. Karen had bills. A job. A semblance of life to pay for.

Quinn and Pete spent the night together. _Doing what?_ That was Agent Chase. A real genius, that one. Must have been top of his class. _Jesus_. Either that or he was a complete asshole. The next morning, Pete took Ms. Quinn and her son out for breakfast. They enjoyed a couple of hours at the diner and then she and Rex saw Pete off. But not before Quinn threw out the invitation of another live band playing that very night.

_I don’t want to._

Quinn was happy to see Pete when he reclaimed the stool in front of her bar. He went back. _He went back_. For _her_. Probably for the music, right Agent Chase? Pete had also taken notice of the mouthy girl present the night before. He noticed her now. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. He went back for Quinn and the night ended in blood and smoke and broken bodies and Quinn in the hospital. And that was it. She never saw Pete again. Agent Chase made a note that Ms. Quinn looked away every time she said Pete’s name. A tell. As if uncomfortable…

Karen took a deep shuddering breath. Then she picked up the picture from the hospital. Even pale, barely conscious with tubes everywhere, she was beautiful. Dark haired brunette. A body that made Agent Chase take notice. _Asshole_. Petite. Well, petite next to Frank. Next to Karen. No skinny blonde beanpole giraffe for Frank. Nope. He certainly had a type. Quinn even looked a little like her. Maria.

_I don’t want to._

_I don’t want to._

_I don’t want YOU._

That was what he had meant. That was what she had forced out of him. Yes, they’d had a bond, a connection from the very beginning. For her, it began even before she had even met him. She had broken into his house for God’s sake! _Stalker much, Page? Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?_ But for Frank? For Frank, his body battered and bruised, his broken brain embedded with a bullet? The ruined man desperate to avenge a family he can only remember in nightmares? _In bloody fucking pieces?_ When the only peace he got was through the vengeful gore and punishment of killing. Of pain and blood. Karen had given him the picture. Karen had told him about his family, about his house. Karen gave him his family back. His words. _Of course_ , he’d bonded to her. _Of course,_ he’d protected her with his life. Shielded her with his body.

She was the fucking lifeline to the family he loved. To his children. To the love of his life. To _Maria_. All this time. _Karen Page, you are a fucking asshole._ All this time, he’d needed a friend. All this time, he’d needed support, needed family. And what did she do? She turned it into something awkward and uncomfortable. She turned it into something he had to refuse and evade. Hell, run from. He’d said no again and again, in so many ways. He’d screamed it at her. But would she listen? No. Not Karen Fucking Page because Karen Fucking Page didn’t quit. Even when she should. She’d pushed and she’d pushed. Until he’d had no choice. _I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want you._

She’d forced him to say it out loud. _Jesus_. Karen curled into herself, sobbing, file and pages forgotten. _When will you learn, Page? You ruin Everything. You kill everything, everyone you love. Did you really think you deserved this?_ Even from Frank Castle, a mass murderer? At least he’d had a code. He’d had a family that loved him. He’d had a reason.

What did you have, Page? _Oh yeah, mommy died and left me in charge. It was hard_. So she turned into a degenerate junkie and killed her baby brother in the process. Kevin, the _only_ truly good thing in her life. The one person left in the world that loved her. God, it should have been her. She should have been the one to die. How many times had she wished she was the one to die? She should have at least gone to fucking jail, been punished for her sins. She didn’t kid herself that her father’s arrangement with the sheriff was for her benefit. It was to save the family name, what was left of it. It was to get her to leave. Leave and never come back. _I don’t want you._

This was Karen Pages refrain and she’ll sing it again and again. _I don’t want you. I don’t want you. I don’t want you_. Who would? Not her dad. Not Matt. And definitely not Frank Castle. Nope.

God, she was pathetic. Such a needy idiot, always wanting things she can’t have. Things she didn't deserve. Always pushing. Why couldn’t she have been normal? A jagged laugh tore from her throat. This was normal, wasn’t it? Heartbreak? Unrequited love? Hilariously normal. _Gee, Karen. Sorry your murder boyfriend was only yours in your head. Now that you’ve forced him to scrape you off, can you stop with the pining and stalking?_ God, she fucking hated herself.

It was dark out. Karen didn’t know how much time had passed but she’d been in the same position for hours. Her head was muzzy. The tears seemed to have run dry after the day long exhibition. She slowly, painfully, unfurled, as if her body had aged a decade in those hours hunched on the couch. She carefully picked up the fallen pieces of reality from around her. She put them carefully back into that file, then the file back into her bag. She would return it. Later.

She would stop. If he ever came back into her life again, she would help him however she can and stop pushing him for things he didn't want. And he _would_ come back into her life again. She _knew_ it. After all, he was bound to need some intel one of these days for one of his missions. No. That wasn’t fair. Frank was a friend. Frank trusted her. He’d dived in front of _fucking bullets_ for her. Almost died for her, more than once.

Karen curled back into a fetal position on the couch, this time wrapped around the quarter bottle of Maker’s. She would be his friend back. She would be what he needed and stop yearning for more. She would do the right thing by his family and take care of him however she could. However he would allow. But without crossing the lines. No, she’d adhere to the lines drawn by him, or the hospital or whatever. She wouldn’t cross it. She would keep her fucking distance, give him room. Not look for him in every dank alley, every lurking shadow. She would stop thinking of him, constantly, worrying. A snorting sob erupted from her, ending in a guilty little hiccup. _Fuck_ , she was drunk. Good luck there, Page. But that was something to think about, to deal with another day.

Today… Tonight, she gave herself permission to mourn. Even if what she was mourning had never existed outside of her head. She gave herself permission to fall apart and to grieve for something that never was. It may have only been in her head, in her heart, but it had been so desperately real there. These emotions involving Frank may have been unrequited, but they were powerful and resilient. They were carved from steel, all sharp cutting edges seeping red. Devastating. Overpowering. And now, humiliating, after Quinn. After I don’t want to. So she was allowed. She’d deal with reality later. Tonight, maybe tomorrow, she would mourn for what never was. What had never existed and never will. An After for Frank Castle and Karen Page.

Their After.

**Author's Note:**

> Now I need someone to write Frank coming back for Karen. Karen determined to be his friend and only that because that is what she believes he wants. Frank not knowing what changed or how to fix it. These two idiots doing idiot things before the FINALLY talking and get their After. 
> 
> Anyone?


End file.
